


The Magician's Assistant

by mudkipwrites



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Bondage, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kinktober 2019, M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Suspension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-31 02:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mudkipwrites/pseuds/mudkipwrites
Summary: There are three basic fields of magic: Production (making something disappear); Levitation (making something seem to defy gravity); and Penetration (making a solid object pass through another object).





	1. ACT ONE: PRODUCTION

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BusinessSocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BusinessSocks/gifts), [Habie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habie/gifts).

In the dim quiet of the room, Crowley can hear his own heartbeat pounding within his chest. Perhaps the sensation is more intense due to the fact that he cannot see, only hear; perhaps, it is because he is naked, for the very first time, before the other being.

“Are you well, love?” 

Crowley swallows thickly, feeling the velvet pulled over his eyes. Although he cannot see through his blindfold, Crowley would know his angel’s voice anywhere. “M’fine,” he replies, trying not to stir. (This is difficult: sitting straight is not a serpentine habit.) 

“And do you remember our safe-word, dearheart?” 

If his yellow eyes were still visible, Crowley knows that Aziraphale would read his face:_ What’s the point? I won’t stop! I WANT YOU. TO. CONSUME. ME. _“Gabriel,” he still replies dutifully. “Yeah, total buzzkill. _ Now _, can we--”

“Hush!” The angel's voice is sharp and commanding. However, the finger he strokes Crowley with is soft. Somewhere, deep down, Crowley had always known this was his angel’s true form: “Guardian of the Eastern Gate,” and all that. But what he had not suspected was how quickly, how desperately, he would jump at Aziraphale’s invitation to dominate him. When his friend had invited Crowley to “assist with a few magic tricks; ones that even heaven doesn’t know,” he’d suspected that it would be very good. But Crowley had been wrong. It was. Even better. “My _ demon.” _Aziraphale purrs. He traces the razor’s edge of Crowley’s jawline. “So impatient. So frustrated.” Aziraphale shifts--and, suddenly--those gentle fingers are gripping down _ hard. _(For such a plush angel, so fond of reading and keeping his hands clean, Aziraphale has a mighty grip. So much for ‘pansy’.) “We have already discussed this, my dear.” Aziraphale says.“ _ I _ am in charge, here: _ You _are my plaything.” 

His voice is low and commanding, and a shiver runs through Crowley. _ Yes. _ He’s whole-heartedly agreed to this... _ arrangement _ . He has read, signed his name, and chosen a safe-word. He has agreed to participate in Aziraphale’s magic series: Production, Levitation, and even Penetration. It’s just that...Crowley has waited _ so long! _ In the context of 6,000 years, one more minute--one more _ second-- _without feeling Aziraphale? It’s totally unbearable! 

“Do you not wish to continue?” Aziraphale’s voice is warm and approving. He strokes fondly at Crowley’s cheeks, Crowley’s lips. 

Crowley begins to panic. He does _ not _ want his eagerness misinterpreted for hesitation. He does _ not _ want this whole magic show to shop. In all of his years of wily temptations, Crowley has seen--has fostered--some pretty _ weird shit. _ So he’s not intimidated by Aziraphale, or his stage-acting. He’s only _ impatient _ that they might _ begin! _ “No! No, _Someonedamnit,_ Angel!” he bursts out. _ “Continue!” _

Crowley wriggles against the seat of his chair. Thank _Someone _that he is is only _blind!_ If Aziraphale had also tied him up, restrained him from moving his serpentine body-- Crowley shivers with pleasure. As if sensing his feelings, the angel's firm, thick fingers increase in their pressure, biding him down. Their strength continues to steadily build until Crowley imagines Aziraphale's cloud-white fingertips biting right into his flesh. He gives a soft groan of appreciation. 

“In that case, Aziraphale breathes, "I think I’d rather...like you to _ shut up now,_ dear.” 

Crowley gasps. In his mind, it had rather gone much like this: he resists Aziraphale’s dominant wiles; he flicks his forked tongue, turns the tables on his angel; _“You can try,”_ he’d tease, kissing him then. But, in reality, it goes much more like this: _NGK!” _For--not only has Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth, restricting his breath, locking up his jaw--he’s also began licking behind Crowley’s ear. Swirling the thick wedge of his tongue over Crowley’s dark tattoo spot. 

“Mmmm_ mmmmm _.” Savoring the taste, Aziraphale licks the heartbeat beneath Crowley’s skin. 

Normally, touching there would feel delicious. But _now _? Now with Crowley’s senses blind to the world-- now, with only the rich smell of Aziraphale in his nose, and the hot touch of Aziraphale on his skin-- the stripe of his tongue is nearly _orgasmic. _ “A-angel!” Crowley yelps in muffled protest. (He _ can’t _ come now! Not right when they _ start! _)

“Shall I stop?” Aziraphale replies playfully. He’s moved his face now, and he’s whispering these words right in Crowley’s ear. The demon can imagine those plump, rosy lips brushing his skin, and he feels himself shudder, growing rigid all-over.

“No!” Crowley gasps. 

Aziraphale nips an earlobe with his teeth. “Good,” he says, resuming his touch. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Crowley releases muffled sounds of pleasure as Aziraphale continues to work his way over his skin. He tastes Crowley’s ear. He tastes Crowley’s neck. He moves to his forehead, his eyelids, his clavicle. As Aziraphale’s breath hovers over his lips, Crowley strains forward towards the touch. “Oh, _ no, _love!” Aziraphale scolds, laughing sweet breath on Crowley’s puckered lips. “You’re not quite ready for _that!”_

Crowley bites down his sharp teeth in frustration. For all of their increasingly intimate touches, Aziraphale has never _ yet _ given him a _ kiss_. Not that he hasn’t wished it! Crowley’s _ dreamed _of what it might mean, to taste those pillowed, soft lips, pressed firm against his. Those lips that had tasted nectar and ambrosia, savored gravlax and dill sauce, read sweet words of poetry into his ear. Aziraphale, inches away, is nearly driving Crowley’s heart mad. “Mmff. _N’gel._” Crowley argues to Aziraphale’s palm. 

“Safeword?” Aziraphale asks pleasantly. Crowley shakes his head. “Then _ QUIET!” _Aziraphale snaps. And he _bites_ him. 

Crowley’s always fancied himself as a bit of a biter. (Comes with the snake-ish territory, that.). But he’d always imagined _ himself _ doing the biting, and _ Aziraphale _as the one receiving love-marks. Now, with this upended, he finds that he quite likes this turn of events. It sends a white-hot bolt of pleasure up and down his spine, and he feels every ginger hair standing with goosebumps. “Sssaaaa!” Crowley hisses out through his nose.

Aziraphale hums in reply, clamping down on his shoulder. He seems to quickly read Crowley’s noise for its pleasure, because, when he releases, he drags his mouth slowly over the purpling area. “Yes?” Aziraphale asks. Crowley imagines that he's batting those long-golden eyelashes innocently back at him. 

“_God-Sat--YES!” _Crowley insists. "Angel! Keep _doing _that!" 

“Mmm,” Aziraphale agrees. He commits to working his mouth over Crowley, touching each and every piece of exposed skin. Crowley can’t help but sigh with delight. He’s enjoying Aziraphale’s touch even more now, feeling the heat rising up in his body. It reminds him of basking in the warm afternoon light, soaking up sunshine rays, back in the garden. 

Tonight, they begin their new arrangement: magician and assistant. For all of his endless teasing of Aziraphale, Crowley's always wanted to _taste _the passion of the angel on his tongue when it comes to magic. Crowley is not sure what to expect; he only knows that Aziraphale will command him, and he will follow. He _wants _to follow. And tonight, while he does not know what is in store, he knows that they are practicing "production": the art of making something disappear, in order to enhance other senses. 

When teeth drag over Crowley’s pulsing jugular, snapping him out of the placid moment, he hears Aziraphale ask: “Would you mind terribly if I removed this?”

For a moment, Crowley’s heart leaps in his chest-- _YES, he’d mind not having a fucking jugular?!_\--but then, he realizes that the angel is tugging on the hem of his shirtsleeve, and not threatening to snap his neck with his teeth.

“_N-no!_ I mean! Yessss.” Crowley stammers weakly.

Aziraphale can go from sacred to _unholy terror _within mere _seconds. _And that's how he _wants _him. Crowley once again thinks of Aziraphale's flaming sword, and he struggles to stifle his groan.

Chuckling, Aziraphale slides the shirt from his shoulders.“Oh, but you’re _ lovely!” _the angel praises. 

Crowley feels himself flushing darkly. It has been delicious, thus far, even _without_ being able to see him; but now, as he sheds layers of skin, the intensity of his impatience is quickly building. Crowley feels more open, more vulnerable, needing less protection, as Aziraphale steadily removes each layer of clothing. It reminds him of shedding his skin: crawling fresh and smooth into the new dawn. 

“Isn’t that better?” Aziraphale coos, kissing his way down Crowley’s neck to his breastbone. 

_“Mmnn!”_ Crowley can’t help but sigh in agreement. (He hasn’t forgotten Aziraphale’s rule: 'don’t speak unless spoken to .' Perhaps that was the thing about being a magician’s assistant: seen, but not heard; supportive, not dominant). But when When Aziraphale’s mouth draws away for a moment, Crowley is sorely tested. He finds himself feeling suddenly cold, and his sensitized ears pick up the sound of rustling. “Wha--?” he asks, confused and desperate.

“That’s for me to know,” Aziraphale replies gently.

Through his pounding heart and his heaving chest, Crowley hears the soft _snick _ of a bottle. Then, feels something _warm_ and _wet _touching his skin. He bites down on one lip with his pointed, sharp fangs, struggling not to groan at the new, hot sensation. 

“This is oil,” Aziraphale says. He is stroking him, making soothing circles against his excited skin. “It’s safe, clean, and lubricating.” For several minutes, Crowley loses himself in the firm, steady touch of his angel. As Aziraphale works his way down Crowley’s torso, he can feel the slight catch of his pinky ring with each touch.

It's _heaven._Crowley has waited for this for _centuries_. He has pined for Aziraphale's touch since..._forever._ He yearned for Aziraphale on the wall of the garden, his white wings sheltering Crowley from the rain. He craved for Aziraphale in Mesopotamia, his sad blue eyes watching the storm. He ached Aziraphale that time in Golgatha, watching him cry for the pain She endured. He wanted Aziraphale when they were in Rome, his succulent, pillowed pink lips sucking oysters. He pined for Aziraphale during Shakespeare's plays, hoping that he'd make two and two of lovers' sweet words. Naturally, he'd been desperate for Aziraphale when he'd shown up to rescue him back in France; and the angle had _surely _felt every ounce of his infatuation when he'd rescued the books for him out from the Nazis. 

_None _of this compared to this moment; not even averting the Apocalypse. Aziraphale is here, with Crowley, right _now. _He's touching him, tasting him, making him _his. _It is the most magical moment of Crowley's long (supernatural) life. 

He's drifted away during the massage, and the drag of Aziraphale's nails down his spine brings Crowley rapidly back to the present. When his soft voice speaks, Crowley feels himself begin to sweat with pleasure. _“Do you trust me?”"_ he whispers to Crowley.

“Everywhere.” Crowley responds instantly. _ “Always.” _

He does not know what the angel has planned; he only that he _ loves _ him, _trusts _ him, and _ wants _him. 

“Then I’m going to take such good care of you, Crowley---” and he begins to pour something molten upon him. 

_ BURN. _Crowley has burned. He knows heat and fire. (He’s a demon, for hell’s sake!) But the warmth that touches his body, in fat, heated droplets, is something entirely new. It is not..._ bad, _really. It is...perfectly _ scorching. _ Not painfully blazing, like the burn of the fall; but encasing, encompassing, wrapping him up in wanting.

“Oh!" Crowley gasps out. “ Oh! oh...._Aziraphale_." 

Crowley suspects that it is hot, melting wax that is dripping on him. It does not have a scent, and it stays liquid-soft even while it is cooling against his rippling skin. He hears Aziraphale gives a shuddering sigh, and more thick plops follow one after the other. “Do you like it?” 

“Mmnn!”

Crowley finds himself _panting_ now. Flecks of wax are landing thickly on his skin, and he feels it pooling near his navel. Crowley imagines Aziraphale standing over him, eyes bright and shining, as he tenderly pours the smolder upon him. The thought makes him weak, and it makes his heart stutter. 

“Does it make you feel as bright, my heart? Bright as the sun?” As always, the angel reads Crowley's stammer quite plainly. He hums with an even greater approval, and wax begins to pour over the wings of his pelvis, running in rivulets towards the earth. “So _ sensitive!” _ Aziraphale praises. Crowley holds his breath as the angel moves to his nipples. “So _ nice _ you are to me._” _

Crowley gasps, eyelids flickering closed. In all their years together, he’s done his best to keep Aziraphale from saying such words. Now, however--with the angel as the only thing he can smell, he can feel--Crowley wants, Crowley _ needs--_

“_Yes, _my love!” Aziraphale says, cupping his head. Crowley finds himself leaning against the angel now, the slick of his own skin upon other skin. “Do you want to touch me?” Crowley moans, feels the wax hardening on his skin, stiff like the cock straining underneath him. “Do you want to taste me, to feel me, my dear?” When he draws his strong hand away from Crowley’s mouth, the demon feels light-headed and spinning.

"_Yes!” _He gasps, surprised at his pitch of desperation. At this point, he feels like he has been encased in the slightly-hard, slightly-flowing body of wax. It feels _delicious. _He is not quite restrained, and yet, not quite free to move. But the very best part is knowing that the principality named _Aziraphale _is the one doing this to him. 

“Then, for my first trick!” Aziraphale announces, and _kisses_ him.

It is _everything _ Crowley has ever imagined. Maybe the taste is sweeter, with only the ability to taste and not see; maybe the touch is softer, after all the hot melting, accelerating his nerves; but Crowley feels--and for the first time since falling--a divine sense of _ right-ness _growing inside him. _“Aziraphale,”_ he breathes, mouth breaking away. 

“My _dear love._ My C_rowley.”_ Aziraphale is cradling Crowley’s jaw in his hand. His fingers are softened and muted from their wax-play, but he holds Crowley deftly and tenderly close to him. 

A wild, burning need is now boiling in Crowley. It rages up from his belly, bursts up from his lungs. “Please!” he exclaims, voice tight with emotion. “Please, _ please _Aziraphale! Show me your face!” For a terrifying moment, the demon thinks that he will be denied. Their terms are clear: Aziraphale is in charge here. Crowley is _ not. _ His commands, his _ desires, _are nothing to the angel--

“Yes, of course, dearheart.” Aziraphale says, carefully drawing the velvet away. As Crowley’s vision swims back into view, he cannot help but stare: Aziraphale, stripped down to his waist, is covered head-to-toe in flushed, fetching scarlet. The hue makes his cheeks look ever more cherubic, and the way his chest heaves is much like a painting. Clearly, the owning has been as good for the angel as it’s been for Crowley: Aziraphale’s eyes are wide and dewey, his rosy lips parted. Like the demon before him, he’s achingly hard, and a small bead of wetness has spilled through his trousers. 

“You?....”

Crowley is not sure what he wants to say. He just wants--he just _ prays _ \-- _ \- _that Aziraphale will return an _ounce_ of his feelings. 

“_ You.” _Aziraphale replies tenderly.

Once again extending his hand, he draws Crowley's face towards his own. Now that he can see him, Crowley is amazed by the depth of blue in his eyes, the curl of his eyelashes, the plush of his lips.

“Do you like it so far?” Aziraphale whispers, keeping his mouth just inches from Crowley.

The demon just stares, mesmerized, at the vision before him.

“Shall we try some more?” 

“_ Angel.” _ Crowley whimpers, going boneless.

When Aziraphale dives in for another mouthful, Crowley can only hope that what he has in store is as good as this magic. 

*

Crowley is not sure how he got so _ lucky. _ All Aziraphale had said was that he had wanted to dust off his magic tricks; and Crowley had offered. Now, as Crowley soaks in the hot bath--steam rising around him, and scented bubbles popping--he thinks that he must be the most _ blessed _ demon in the _ world. _

“Good, my love?” Aziraphale asks. He’s standing in the doorway, balancing a brimming tea-tray on one hip. 

“_B__rilliant.” _Crowley breathes, sinking a bit lower. “Angel. You don’t have to do this.”

After all was done, Aziraphale cared for him. He’d wiped Crowley down with a soft, warm flannel, then carried him to the tub. As he’d drawn warm water into their claw-foot bath, he’d lighted some crackling, wooden-wick candles. The room now smelled pleasantly of mint and rosemary, and the lights were dimmed low enough to make Crowley sleepy. 

“No?” Aziraphale says. He walks into the room and draws a seat next to Crowley, dipping one thick finger into the water. He has changed into a fluffy bathrobe, and the portion of his flush, sparsely-haired chest shows reveals the jagged, red lines of clawed fingernails. 

“No.” Crowley agrees, drinking him in. “The..._ show _itself was enough of a pleasure.” 

Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley shifts himself in the bath. As he relaxes his head back against the smooth tile, Aziraphale drifts fingertips through the foamy head. 

“I knew you’d come around,” he says, voice soft and dream. “Nobody can resist close-up magic.” 

Crowley snorts, and it sends a bit of bubbles spraying. “Close-up?!” He asks in mock-disbelief. “How about _ full-body contac _t!” 

Because: after they’d finished with the wax, Aziraphale had done the thing _ thoroughly. _First, he’d brought out the frozen grapes--rolled the icy pebbles on Crowley’s hot skin until they were warm, then fed them to him. Next, he’d taken soft gloves and brushed over his body--just before striking him with a rough paddle. Finally, the silk ropes. Alternating between fast and slow, soft and rough, firm and gentle, all sweet, Crowley touched and tasted till he could bear no more. 

Then, Aziraphale had stripped him of his mask, and made love to him. 

“You didn’t like it?” Aziraphale asks Crowley self-consciously. 

The demon stares at his angel. How could this awkward, shy being so dominate him, like nobody ever else had in existence? Crowley feels something tight near his sternum. 

“I didn’t like it.” Crowley says then. 

When Aziraphale flinches, it almost makes him sorry. Then, Crowley rises in the tub, stretches forward, and plants a kiss on Aziraphale’s forehead. “I didn’t like it… I _ loved _it.” As he kisses the angel’s cheek, he relaxes. 

“_ Ugh!” _Aziraphale groans in annoyance, pushing the demon back down with a splash. “Get thee behind me, foul fiend!” When Crowley laughs, Aziraphale flicks the water at him as though it’s holy. 

“Only if you like,” Crowley offers slyly. 

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, and taps on his shoulder. Ever obliging, Crowley raises one foot, and allows it to be scrubbed and massaged and pampered. Relaxed beyond measure, he allows his yellow eyes to sink closed, and Crowley enjoys a long, peaceful moment of resting with Aziraphale.


	2. ACT TWO: LEVITATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants to dust off his magic acts. Crowley offers to assist him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three basic fields of magic: Production (making something disappear), Levitation (making something seem to defy gravity), and Penetration (making a solid object pass through another object). Happy Kinktober, you horny fiends! >:)

The air smells faintly of old books and ink. Although Crowley had been surprised at Aziraphale's insistence they meet in his beloved library; but Crowley had committed himself. He would be the _perfect_ assistant. Aziraphale was the master magician: he fully trusted his leading touch. So it was, even with great surprise, he had accepted Aziraphale's offer of bondage. Like any serpent, Crowley had suspected that being tied down would be _most_ uncomfortable. (And, while, _yes,_ he’d done bondage a time or two for Temptations, he's _never_ been the one on the receiving end). It sends something exciting and dangerous through him. 

“Don’t struggle now, love.” the angel is saying.

He’s cinching tight laces on Crowley’s wrist-cuffs with those deft, supple fingers. “This will go much easier if you hold still for me.” 

“Nn.” Crowley agrees. He can’t help it. _ Slithering _is just part of his rhythm. 

“Too tight?” Aziraphale asks, testing the tension. He pulls at the length of rope looped round the thin leather cuffs, and Crowley feels the network of leather pull chest, forearms, and wrists. 

“No.” He shakes his head. 

_More please! _he thinks. 

Today, their arrangement is simple: Levitation. For the act, Crowley will talk only when he’s asked questions. (Or, if it hurts, and he wants to safeword). The rest will be taken care of Master Aziraphale. While some might find this idea intimidating, Crowley finds the submission to be freeing. 

“Good.”

Aziraphale is nodding his head. He is tracing those lovely fingers slowly down Crowley’s back, taking his time to massage each of his muscles. Crowley watches as those hands pause, hovering just above the wings of his pelvis. He really wishes that they could leave bruises. “And t_hese_?” He tugs at the cuffs tightened around Crowley’s ankles. "How are these feeling?" 

“Just right.” Crowley says, savoring the sting, but g_et to it, Angel! _is what he thinks. Crowley's _ready _for him. He _trusts_ Aziraphale. He _knows_ that his lover would never hurt him, will never hurt him willingly. Not unless that’s exactly what Crowley asks for. And this makes this encounter tasty and thrilling, rather than something intimidating. 

“Lovely!”

But as the angel paces around him, it is Crowley who thinks, _Aziraphale is the one who is lovely._ The angel, warm and steady as always, is gazing at Crowley through baby-blue glasses. It gives him a look of commitment, _ precision. _ They echo off the blue of his eyes, and make the while curls of his head look like heaven. And, of course: he’s stripped down to his short-sleeved white undershirt. It pulls pleasantly taunt on each and every curve, and Crowley thinks he looks simply _ divine. _

“Breathe deeply for me?” Aziraphale asks. 

As Crowley inhales and straightens his spine, Aziraphale slides both hands up his back. Crowley shudders at the warmth of the touch, and feels the drag of rope on his skin. By now, he knows that Aziraphale is quite skilled at the art of shibari, and he knows it won’t hurt while the length of rope binds up his core. 

“_ Perfect.” _ Aziraphale praises him then. He kisses the place where Crowley’s neck meets the top of his spine, and he wonders if each of his vertebrae shivers. “You look _ perfect _like this.” 

“Mmmn.” It wasn’t a phrase, but Crowley was forbidden to make any noise. So when he lets loose the inadvertent sound of pleasure, Aziraphale tugs on the ropes that bind him. 

Crowley inhales sharply through his nose as the binding around him tightens inwards. 

“Easy, dear boy.” Aziraphale soothes. 

Crowley feels _ everything. _He feels where the rope pulls over his trapezius, anchoring the pressure of shoulders and chin. He feels where the rings loop rope under his arms, anchoring just above his obliques. And he feels where those bands cross over, weaving into an intricate, five-pointed star over his pectorals, down towards his abdomen.

“When you resist me,” Aziraphale reminds him, “This will tighten.” 

Crowley knows all of this, but it’s different when Aziraphale says it. Different, because he is fully at the mercy of his angel. Different, because he cannot move a muscle, even if he wanted to. He is captivated. 

“Are you ready, darling?” Aziraphale asks. He lifts Crowley’s jaw, so that all of his intricate bondage increases pressure. 

Crowley bites down a whimper. “Yes, _ please. _” He says. 

Aziraphale releases his jaw and steps back, admiring. Crowley suspects that he looks a _ sight _ before him: bound tight with black rope, knees slightly parted, naked cock dripping pearly and needing. Crowley’s never had issues with losing his clothes: he knows that his body is suitable, adequate. But the _ hungry _ way that Aziraphale looks at him? It makes him feel more like--beautiful. _ Radiant. _

“Good _ Lord.” _ Aziraphale says, looking him up and down. This must be doing something for him, because Aziraphale’s nostrils are flared, and Crowley thinks that his breathing is less steady. For a moment, he matches gazes with Aziraphale: reading the passion, the _ heat _he sees there. 

“I’m going to start.” the angel informs him. Crowley smiles, but abruptly lets out a “_ NGK!” _as Aziraphale pushes down on his head. Crowley has no choice: the bondage commands him. Dictating his movements, Aziraphale moves the demon down until he is prone on the floor, chest to chin. 

“I’m moving these,” Aziraphale breathes. Crowley feels a tug at the back of his ankles, and then, from his wrists. There is a tensioning across his chest, latching his sternum, as hands and feet are drawn upwards and behind his body. 

Before they began, he’d discussed the suspension: what he was willing to do (_ anything, everything, for you, angel) _ and how he was willing to go ( _ how about forever?). _Aziraphale, smiling mysteriously, had promised him that he would like his plan. 

It appears this plan involves horizontal suspension. With Crowley held up by his own hands and feet. 

“Okay, dearheart?” 

Working to pull rope against the rigging, Aziraphale steadily increases his pressure. Slowly, the bindings on Crowley intensify; slowly he feels hands and feet lifting upwards. 

Crowley hisses. 

“How graceful you look!” Aziraphale praises. “How _ beautiful. _ How _ lovely.” _

To his surprise, Crowley feels his eyes stinging. _ Tears?! _ His reaction has nothing to do with the way black rope bites into his skin, the way that his bones heave in their sockets. It has everything to do with being seen, being _ known, _ by his angel. 

“_ Please!” _Crowley gasps out. “More!” 

“Shall I go higher, love?” 

Crowley’s chin drops down towards the ground, and his back begins to bow towards the sky. As the pressure increases, he feels his wrists drawing back and down towards his feet. Sweat--or, maybe, tears--run down Crowley’s face and drop from his chest as his ribcage expands down towards the floor. There are still several points of pressure where his knees, chest and pelvis are touching the floor. 

“I believe you are familiar with this posture, Crowley.” Aziraphale says placidly. “A hog-tie suspension. Remind you of anything in particular?” 

“Hmmm.” Crowley hmms in annoyance. Far too many exorcisms had involved _ pigs _. 

“Well, hold fast, my dear. And, if you are good--” Aziraphale’s bonds pull even tighter“--Maybe, someday allow you to return the favor.” 

In a flash of pleasure, Crowley imagines it: each fleshy curve of Aziraphale’s body bound and biting into leather--every part of his lovely skin flushed with angelic ecstasy-- 

_ “Oh!” _Crowley groans, letting his jaw drop.

The thought has not only made his mouth water, but _ salvate. _And a long, glistening strand of spit drops from his lips to join the spattering on the floor. 

_ “Good.” _ Aziraphale sighs. “You’re so very _ good, _Crowley.” 

As Crowley’s face (and limbs) burn, he feels the strain of the rig bearing down. As the tension increases, his body is hoisted ever higher, now, hovering just above the floor. 

No longer do the raw points of his knees brush the smooth surface: they dangle, brushing above the cool earth. 

“Okay?” 

“_ Very.” _Crowley feels his eyelids growing heavy. 

“A bit more, then.” Aziraphale whispers. He pulls Crowley slowly into the air. 

It had been many years since Crowley has fallen. (Nearly 6,000, to be precise). Ever since then, he hasn’t been _ fond _ of high heights or flying. Must be something about _ knowing _ what it _ feels _like--to have your stomach lurch; to have the wind torn from your wings; to fall, screaming, from heaven to earth--that makes you more inclined to stay on the ground.

But Crowley is not feeling this now with Aziraphale. Instead, he feels _free. _This is his best friend, in all of eternity. This is his soulmate, his person, his _love._ Crowley knows that, theoretically, putting himself into someone’s hands could be fearful, dangerous, vulnerable. But this is not _someone._ It is _Aziraphale_. And Crowley only feels _trust _with his angel.

_ “Oh!” _Crowley gasps, very softly. 

“Tell me what you feel.” Aziraphale says. It’s not a question.

Apart from the ground, the pain is _ exquisite. _ Crowley’s shoulders burn where they are pulled back. His abdomens tremble from clenching and strain. The tops of his thighs are roaring with sensation, and he feels his heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

“...Nice!” Crowley says. 

This isn’t untrue. While it _ does _ feel a _ bit _like his muscles are shredding, Crowley knows that Aziraphale has him rigged safely. His body has been mapped out carefully (not to mention, has recently inhabited). Aziraphale knows his corporeal form. 

“Nice....” the angel answers. 

For a moment, Crowley isn’t sure if he’s answered wrong. Aziraphale’s eyes flash, and Crowley gets a glimpse of the Eastern-Gate Guardian. It’s like wading: out into a pool of water, and suddenly finding yourself in the ocean. He gulps. 

“Good!” Crowley says quickly. “Yes! It’s very good!” 

Aziraphale does not seem to be convinced. He pauses to double-check where the ropes meet the rigging, and then he begins a slow, prowling approach.

“I like it! Crowley whines. “It’s very--” however, his voice cuts off in his throat. Crowley’s bound restrictions bindings are _ far _ more effective this high, with his whole body weight working against him. Even though Crowley doesn’t weigh much ( _ noodly, _some might call him), gravity is effective in doing the work. Each tug that he makes from Aziraphale’s bondage rewards him with a new wave of tension. 

He whimpers. 

Aziraphale_ tisks _ , and he grasps the cuffs on Crowley’s wrists. As the demon groans from the increasing strain of it, the angle extends his arms towards his heels. When Crowley is stretched back parallel to his pelvis, there is a shift, and a _ clink, _ and a _ snap. _His wrists are now bound to his ankles. 

“That’s a spreader-bar, Crowley.” Aziraphale says. He runs a palm over Crowley’s bare ass, leaving a feather-light trail of fire. “And, perhaps, one more thing…” He hurries away, then returns with his hands full. Crowley glimpses another dark strap, and he wonders for a wild moment if Aziraphale means to strike him. (_ Not bad!) _But Aziraphale draws it around Crowley’s pelvis, connects it behind his tailbone with a ring. When he draws it upward to meet his spread feet and hands, the pressure begins to alleviate rapidly. 

“That should help,” the angel says--and it _ does! _While Crowley had been perfectly happy with the posture as it had been before, it feels now even better with the relief in his lower back.

In fact, all his anxiety, heaviness, is slowly being drained out of his body. It seems an inversion to the building pressure: for, as Crowley is lifted higher into the air; as the ropes bite into his skin; the anguish within his body and mind gradually melts away.

“Angel...” Crowley whispers. 

He ought to tell him. He really ought to tell Aziraphale how much he loves this. How free he feels. Once again, Crowley feels the corners of his yellow eyes burning. 

“Hush now, Crowley.” 

When Aziraphale pulls back to admire his handiwork, he runs one fingertip across Crowley’s cheekbone. As he lifts the finger up to his mouth, Crowley watches him taste his saltwater tear.

“_ Angel…!” _ Crowley gasps. His voice has grown ragged. He’s nearing the edge. 

Aziraphale frowns with surprise. “Good _ Lord! _But, you have a high threshold for pain!” 

The praise makes Crowley flush all over, grow even _ hotter. _ If he dared to meet Aziraphale’s eye, he knows that he could not endure his smile. 

“H-how…” Crowley gasps. Words are difficult, but they are still in his mastery. “How do you want me?” 

Aziraphale studies him. “Thus, I think, my dear boy…” the angel sighs affectionately. Then, leaning down, he gathers something in his hands. “I think I must add the weights now. And not later.” In his palms, Aziraphale holds several dark squares on a linked chain. 

“_ Aziraphale!” _A terrified pleasure rolls through him. To Crowley, the thought of increasing the pull, even minutely, seems very impossible at the moment! 

“Right.” Aziraphale says, starting towards him. “You see? If you can say anything--” he fixes the teeth of one tiny, serrated clamp on a nipple-- “then you are not fully within my control.” Crowley moans, tries to turn his head away. He can’t hide the pleading expression on his face, no more than he can hide his dripping, exposed cock. (He had nearly forgotten, all things hanging heavy). 

“And that’s what I want,” Aziraphale continues. He fixes the teeth over the other, and Crowley’s areola are wrinkled and dark. “How I want you: _ mine.” _

Aziraphale gives a stroking, firm touch to his breastbone, then steps away. 

“_ Ah-haa! OHH!” _

When he draws away, Crowley immediately feels the shift. Before, his pain had spiked around the tender flesh of his wrists and ankles, had laced up his muscles, tendons, and bone. But _ now: _ it burns jagged, hot lines down his back like lightning. Bolts through his torso and down towards his chest.

“Oh! Ohhhh…” 

_ “Nice.” _Aziraphale says with relish. Crowley shudders as he paces around him, keeping one hand always on soaking skin. When Crowley closes his eyes, he can feel the feather-light brush of Aziraphale tracing his outline. It’s gentle against his quaking flesh. 

“But will you take more?” 

“_ M-m. M. More!” _Crowley hears himself gasping. 

“Mmmn. _ Now, _we’re getting there.” 

* 

After a scalding bath and a soothing, cool towel, Crowley had fallen into Aziraphale’s bed. Presently, his chin lays in Aziraphale’s lap, and he’s receiving a firm scalp-massage. 

“Are you _ certain _ we didn’t take it too far?” Aziraphale is asking Crowley again. Crowley groans and rubs his head into the depth of Aziraphale’s thighs. 

“No, Angel, _ no. _Again: no. It’s still: no.” 

An hour ago, Crowley could not have said those words. Not that he was ever _ once _in danger, or forced beyond pleasure. Just that he had been a wet, drooling mess of lust-enslaved demon. Aziraphale had truly extended their session to his very limits: teasing and testing, touching and caressing. He’d continue to bear additional weight, until all he could gasp was syllables of the angel’s name. As he’d flown higher, he’d become light-headed by the freedom of it: panting, ropes binding, he’d cried out for pleasure. 

Aziraphale had given it to him. First, he’d released Crowley at his groin; then, he’d steadily worked his way up. By the time that Crowley was lowered to the ground, every _ inch _of him had been licked, bit, and savored. Crowley had felt like a particularly luxurious night at the Ritz. 

“I had the_ best _time.” 

From on top of his head, the fingers stop scratching. “Best?” Aziraphale echoes softly. Crowley feels the shift of the bed, and Aziraphale has moved out from under him. Now, they are lying face to face, so he can look into those clear, sky-blue eyes. “Couldn’t be, Crowley.” He blinks. “Not better than me.” 

The demon feels himself smiling back at his angel. Aziraphale took a little time to get into the element, but once he felt in charge, the dominance was natural. Thinking about the raw _ power _within his arms, back and legs makes Crowley closes his eyes and shudder. 

“Well, maybe.” 

Aziraphale seems satisfied at this assent, and he returns his gentle massage back on Crowley. He groans as the pressure moves over his scalp, resetting his nerve-endings and loosening tension. Yes, it was going to take several days for Crowley to unwind from this magic-trick. And he would not even bother to miracle his bruising rope-burns. Because, for something like this, Crowley wants to _ look _at it, let it heal, all slow and natural.

“I think you’re right, Angel.” Crowley says then. Aziraphale hum back in reply. “I think that magic really _ does _ bring joy to people. I haven’t felt…” he swallows. “Haven’t felt that _ light. _ That _ free. _For, since...well. Forever.” 

Aziraphale’s fingers trace along his cheek, then stroke at the corners of his yellow eyes. Crowley doesn’t know why, until he feels wetness there, and realizes that tears have somehow escaped him again. 

“It’s an honor, my darling.” the angel replies. Crowley figures that, well: since he’s already crying, there is no need to keep himself from sobbing. He begins to shake, and his lover draws him into his strong arms. “There, there. I know. I hear you. It hurts.” 

Crowley cries, but it is a purifying thing. He is not weeping because he is angry, or sad: he is weeping because he is feeling _ relief. _ For so long, for so many years, he’s existed without liberation. Whether that had to do with wanting, _ yearning _for his angel--but never touching--or whether it was because he’d been bound to an army he hated, Crowley had known despair to his marrow. (“The body keeps score,” Aziraphale had once told him knowingly over his papers. “You’re carrying trauma, there. Please let me help you.”) 

In a way Crowley had not even expected, Aziraphale had made good on his deed. To some, his submissive posture to the angel would seem foolish or humiliating. But Crowley has only ever felt the opposite. Aziraphale’s touch is loving and gentle. Aziraphale’s gaze is praising and _ good. _

“Thank you,” Crowley says, wiping his eyes on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

He cradles Crowley there, tenderly, and whispers, “No. Thank you.” 


	3. ACT THREE: PENETRATION

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale wants to dust off his magic acts. Crowley offers to assist him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are three basic fields of magic: Production (making something disappear), Levitation (making something seem to defy gravity), and Penetration (making a solid object pass through another object). Happy Kinktober, you horny fiends! >:)

It had taken more than a week for Crowley to recover from his last performance with The Great Aziraphale. ( _ Not that the angel would ever rush him; going ‘too fast’ was more Crowley’s arena _ .) After countless soaks in the tub, careful stretching of muscles, and long, restful naps (without playful, celestial interruptions) Aziraphale  _ finally  _ deems Crowley ready. And--dear  _ Somebody!-- _ Crowley is ready. 

_“Angel!”_ the demon says, flicking his forked tongue. Crowley can taste salt and sex in the air. He’s currently bound up in a chair (_echoes of their last act_) and blindfolded (_recalling their first_). This time, Aziraphale has started Crowley out fully-naked, and he can feel the rise of his fine, ginger hairs in anticipation. “What are you _doing_? Waiting for the _grass _to grow?” 

Aziraphale chuckles, and the sound makes Crowley grin. It reminds him of warm air and sunshine, of laugh-lines that crinkle around ancient eyes. “No, my foul fiend.” Aziraphale says fondly. “But the more that you test me, the longer I shall take.” 

_ That _ makes Crowley shut right up. Tonight, the angel has moved him into their final act:  _ Penetration.  _ Thus far, they’ve mastered Presentation and Suspension. Now, they’ve finally arrived at the climax. 

“If you are ready to behave, dear boy, then we will begin.” 

“I’m ready, I’m  _ ready,  _ Angel!”-- and the words have barely made it out of his mouth before Aziraphale is  _ kissing  _ him,  _ hard _ . The novelty of kissing has not worn out for Crowley in the slightest. He could go on endlessly with it, get drunk on it, with Aziraphale. The angel’s lips are plush and warm, softened by years of sweet desserts and tea. These tender instruments of soft words and prayers are now pushing up against Crowley reverently, and he is not sure that he can stand the worship. 

“Ngk!” 

“My dear?” Aziraphale draws back, breathing on his face. 

“ _ Please.”  _ Crowley says, urging him to continue. 

Aziraphale resumes, kissing his cheek. His lips brush over Crowley’s forehead and tastes the sweat there, tongue lapping smooth and softly against his hot skin. He kisses his way down the side of his jaw, each stroke of his tongue highlighting the blade. Sucking and tasting, he moves his mouth down to the tender skin beneath Crowley’s outstretched chin, licks and bites his way to his Adam’s Apple. 

When Crowley hisses, Aziraphale whispers, “You  _ tempt _ me, my demon.” Crowley shivers, feeling the touch of Aziraphale’s mouth over the sharp swell of his skin. He imagines that is a real apple,  _ The  _ Apple, on which the angel dines. As he imagines the way his pearl-white teeth nip at his fragile skin, he recalls how Aziraphale had first looked in the garden: pure, raw and holy. He lets out a low-throated groan. 

“T-temptation accomplished, then,” Crowley replies. He can feel Aziraphale smile against his skin. 

“Bit more, I think…” Aziraphale says--as he always does, when Crowley can still talk coherently during their magic acts--and he moves his mouth down to Crowley’s clavicle. He sucks in a sharp breath as Aziraphale kisses the skin there, bites down tenderly on the flesh. He knows that he will have bruises again tomorrow, and that he will leave them for  _ weeks  _ if he can. (Evidence of the angel who loves him.) 

As Aziraphale moves his mouth down Crowley’s sternum, he sighs and melts into the touch. Aziraphale licks slowly around one nipple until it is hard, then works his teeth over it, thickening the peak. “ _ Ah! _ ” Crowley huffs, as Aziraphale works his way to another. “Angel, n-need more,  _ please _ …” 

“ _ Hush, _ Crowley.” Aziraphale orders. “And let me worship you, dearest.” The strength of his voice and the tenderness of his meaning make Crowley shudder again, and he gasps when Aziraphale begins on the other nipple. 

“T-that’s!” Crowley starts, “That’s very--!” His voice is cut off in a strangled moan as Aziraphale bites down with his teeth teasingly. Crowley does, very much, like things gentle; but he’s also experienced that he likes it  _ hard.  _ And Aziraphale is shockingly, stoically strong. 

Against his sensitized skin, Crowley feels Aziraphale wrap his arms around his lower back. It’s a struggle for Crowley not to wriggle his hands, his fingers, and to sink his nails into that golden-spun fluff on his angel’s head. He feels him trace his thick, well-manicured fingers down his sides, his ribs, caressing each space and gap between the protruding bones. 

“Next time,” Aziraphale murmurs playfully, “I think that I’m going to feed you something, love.” 

The image makes Crowley sharply inhale breath: he can just imagine Aziraphale’s soft fingers pushing, one by one, into his mouth: filling him up with cream, or some cake, or crepes. It makes his mouth water in more ways than one, and he feels his hips straining against the bonds holding him to the chair. 

Aziraphale’s laugh is delighted. “Oh, you’d like that?” He asks, scratching his fingernails up and down Crowley’s back. When they come to arrive just above Crowley’s tailbone, he becomes aware of how painfully stiff that he has become. 

“But, for tonight, dearheart…” Aziraphale says--Crowley feels his stomach  _ drop _ as the angel’s breath fans over his pulsing erection-- “I shall dine on  _ you.”  _ The moment when Aziraphale’s lips curl over Crowley’s cock is a revelation. As he feels the wet slide of flesh against flesh, he remembers walking bare-skinned through the Garden. 

_ “A-angel!”  _ He gasps, and Aziraphale makes a pleased, humming sound. The vibrations of it send additional chills up Crowley’s rigid spine. “Angel,  _ please,  _ I  _ beg of you--”  _

Aziraphale licks and sucks down, taking in more than just the swollen head. As his tongue flicks against the shaft of his member, feather-light and sensual, Crowley clenches his teeth and tries not to come early. “_Yeahhhh.” _He sighs, as Aziraphale’s lips meet the base of his cock. “Yeah, I mean, _fuck yes,_ _I--” _

Whatever Crowley was going to say, it is drowned out by his own pleasure as Aziraphale moves to his balls. It’s of course, a miracle when they do not breathe; and Aziraphale has seemed to have spent one on Crowley as his mouth dives deeper, lapping at Crowley’s tightening balls. As Crowley moans again, he feels Aziraphale  _ giggle  _ with satisfaction at his work, and the feeling of the vibration is positively  _ sinful.  _

Aziraphale’s mouth is hot and heavy on his cock. Crowley tries to breathe, tries to relax. The sensations that wash over him remind him of all the times he’s fantasized about this  _ very  _ moment, that these very lips would be the ones sliding over him, drawing him forward. He wonders what it would feel like to do the same thing for Aziraphale, returning the favor, and it makes him shudder. Surely, Aziraphale’s member would be as thick and plush as the rest of him. Just the thought of it makes Crowley ache. 

“ _ Fuck.”  _ Crowley pants, and Aziraphale pulls back with a wet  _ pop.  _ “Oh, my dear. I  _ intend  _ to!” he replies, then dives back down and takes Crowley again. 

It’s better than the Bentley. It’s better than wine. It’s better than averting the Apocalypse, and figuring out that your best friend’s in  _ love _ with you. Because: it is  _ happening _ . This physical, intimate expression of care. Every stroke of Aziraphale’s tongue, every suck of his mouth, is an admission of want, a phrase of affection.  _ I want you. I need you. You are mine. Everything.  _

Crowley cannot see, but he feels Aziraphale bobbing his head. He’s not choking, and he’s moving at  _ just  _ the right angle,  _ just  _ the right speed, and it feels blissfully better than anything Crowley could imagine. He knows that, if his hips were not tied down to reduce motion, he would be thrusting in earnest into Aziraphale’s mouth by now. 

“_Angelll_!” Crowley hisses, gripping his chair. He knows that he’s getting quite close now, and has no idea what the angel intends. “I-if you’re gonna do something, _now _is the time--” From around him, Aziraphale _growls, _and Crowley can’t help but cry out in shocked pleasure. _Oh, Someone! Oh, Somebody! _He wishes that he could see his best friend now: eyes heavy-lidded, cheeks flushed pinkish-read, lips wrapped around the line of his cock as it plunges, in and outward--

“HEY!” Crowley yelps as he feels himself come. 

It’s quick, and it’s powerful: bollocks drawing upward, stomach muscles clenching. As Crowley’s thighs shake open and he pours ejaculate, not a drop of it falls from Aziraphale’s lips. He knows this because he feels the angel’s mouth still around him, throat long and thick and swallowing him whole. “ _ Hhhh….”  _ Crowley’s head rolls back on his shoulders, feeling the wet slide of Aziraphale’s soft palate. 

Aziraphale slides off Crowley’s oversensitized cock. “Hey.” He says pleasantly, his voice gently teasing. “You feeling alright, my dear?” 

Such an understatement could  _ possiblynot possibly _ not sum up how Crowley is feeling, so he attempts to make a thumbs-up to Aziraphale. Then, remembering that he is still bound, Crowley gives up and just nods his head at his angel instead. 

“Good.” Aziraphale says--and it  _ is  _ good, the way Crowley feels! “I’m going to untie you now, Crowley. But you must  _ not  _ be a sneaky serpent! Now that you’ve done your part for  _ me _ , I would very much like to do my part for  _ you.”  _ Crowley’s slow brain stumbles, confused. Maybe he is not hearing properly? For, after being serviced and worshipped by the angel like  _ that,  _ Crowley hardly thinks that Aziraphale owes him. 

“Wha?” He manages, voice sounding blissed-out and dumb. 

“There’s a good lad!” Aziraphale chirps. 

Crowley feels his wrist-bondages loosen, the ties that are holding his body to the chair slacken. For a moment, he wonders if he is being freed; then, Aziraphale slams him face-down on the floor. “ _ NGK _ !” Crowley sputters.  _ GOOD. VERY GOOD.  _

“There, now.” Aziraphale pants. (Pleasantly, Crowley can hear that his voice is, for the very first time, growing strained. How he  _ wishes _ that he could see his angel’s face!) “Now I’m going to prepare you, my Crowley, my love.” As Crowley wiggles with anticipation, Aziraphale straps his wrists once again to loops on his sides. “And I’m going to leave you bound up, if that’s alright.” 

_ “MMMNN!” Hell yes,  _ it’s alright! Crowley is not sure why he is being asked; he had signed up for this thing, after all. Offered himself up as the magician’s assistant. However, he knows that Aziraphale is, at heart, a deeply caring and compassionate creature. Crowley suspects that his angel would rather bathe in  _ hellfire _ than force an unwilling Crowley into any situation. 

“MMnn,” Aziraphale agrees politely. He pushes firmly on the back of Crowley’s neck, tugging at the ropes of his five-pointed star. As the bondage against Crowley’s chest pulls tightly, his face and chin bow down towards the floor, wings of his pelvis rising into the air. “Very delicious, indeed….” Then Aziraphale’s nails grip into a handful of Crowley’s tight ass, and the demon nearly whites-out in pleasure. 

Crowley has been eaten-out before. He has certainly done his own fair share with temptations. He might even call himself a connoisseur, being that he enjoys it so much. But--it’s something entirely  _ different  _ when you have one of  _ heaven’s angels  _ tonguing your arsehole. As if: the sensation is somehow hotter,  _ brighter,  _ just for the fact that it is fornication. 

_ “Aziraphale.”  _ Crowley pants. Since the angel began kissing his arsehole, Crowley had been unable to stop talking. He  _ knows  _ that his command is to be silent; but with Aziraphale’s mouth being so totally occupied, he suspects that he might just get away with it. “ _ Az! _ ” He exclaims as his tongue dives deeper. “ _ Azi!--Azira!- _ -” He feels Aziraphale flicking around, stroking the trembling sides of his muscle-wall with a deft tongue. 

Pleased by Crowley’s reaction, Aziraphale pushes deeper. He laps at the taste. He treats Crowley as if he is some sort of decadent dessert, a puff or a pie, and the noises he makes are equally tasteful. Crowley moans at the intensity of it, and thinks of how Aziraphale dining at the Ritz. How  _ deeply,  _ how  _ desperately  _ he’d wanted his friend. “ _ Mmmoore…”  _ Crowley pleads. White-tipped fingernails bite into Crowley’s flesh, and Aziraphale spreads him even wider. By now his entrance must be sopping wet, if the way the angel’s slick lips are an indication. Aziraphale’s thick wedge of tongue slides easily in and out now, and Crowley thinks he must be nearly ready. He wonders how this would have gone tonight, with all of Aziraphale’s savoring ministrations, had he chosen a pussy for the Effort. (The thought thrills him; he saves it for later _ ,  _ intends to return).

For a moment, Crowley feels Aziraphale draw away. He whines at the lack of heat and contact, wishing he could see; but then, his voice pitches high with panicked longing, as Aziraphale’s fingers make as the smooth breech. 

“ _ Dear  _ Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs. He slides the finger in up to the knuckle, and Crowley can feel that he’s rapidly becoming hard once again. “If this goes well, do you think--” 

“ _ MORE!”  _ Crowley demands, and Aziraphale laughs. It’s a quiet sound, and the breath of it dances over his hot, wet skin. 

“ _ I  _ shall decide that,” the angel whispers, but obligingly begins fucking him with his finger. 

Crowley groans as the finger extends into him fully, stroking and pulling and turning within. When another enters into him easily, Crowley has to bite down on his lip to keep from shouting. Aziraphale’s fingers continue their pulling and stroking, as if beckoning his lover to come and see. “Good?” He asks, and Crowley notices that he’s shaking.

“Good.” Crowley sighs, pushing back against him. 

This must have been the encouragement that the angel needs, because a third finger now forces its way in to join them. This one is more rough, and it tugs a little where the others didn’t; but Crowley knows that they’re getting close now, and he is  _ urgent  _ to feel Aziraphale inside of him. 

“ _ Please,”  _ he begs, and feels fingers draw out of him. For a moment, Crowley thinks that he has pushed past his limit--he is not supposed to give the commands here!--but then, he gasps with delighted surprise. Strong hands have grasped hold of him once more, and he’s being rotated roughly upwards. As thick, slick fingers tug against his sharp hip-bones, he feels himself drawn into Aziraphale’s lap. 

“ _ OH! Ohh…”  _ Crowley can feel, through the texture of corduroy trousers, that the angel has grown incredibly hard. When his tight nipples brush against Aziraphale’s jacket, he knows that the angel has brought him to the edge while fully-clothed, and, somehow, that makes this even hotter. There is a scratch of nails on his hips, and Crowley feels his hands being released from the looped rings. “Zira,” he begins, preparing to beg. 

_ “Crowley.” _ Aziraphale says. His voice has grown deathly serious. Crowley feels himself sit up straight, anticipating something of a command here. “There is something I need from you, my darling.” 

Aziraphale is his very best friend. He’s known him from the beginning--perhaps,  _ before  _ the beginning, before he can remember. Before the garden, before the stars: they  _ must  _ have been created together. He feels like he is coming home every time he hears the angel’s soft voice. As he is held tightly in Aziraphale’s arms, heaving chests pulled together, heart-against-heart, it is like everything broken being repaired; like everything lost being found and made right again. 

“ _ Anything.”  _ Crowley breathes. “Anything, for you, Aziraphale.”

“Don’t hold back.” 

Crowley gasps. The sudden shift from Aziraphale’s command to be silenced throughout all of this--to be a loud and engaged participate, as much as he can, in this final act--is simply  _ delicious.  _ A thrill runs through him, and he can’t do much but moan as Aziraphale begins slowly thrusting upwards. “ _ Angel--”  _

“Tell me how you like it.” Slowly, carefully, Aziraphale is increasing his pace. Crowley hisses, lets his head fall back against Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angle undulates his hips underneath him, making slow and dragging and powerful strokes, while his fingertips hold Crowley down into place. 

“Faster,” Crowley exhales with delight, “and  _ harder.”  _

Aziraphale immediately does as he’s bid. Crowley is grateful for the hands that hold him in place, because otherwise he’d be sent sailing into the air. The sheer  _ power  _ of the angel’s dense thighs is enough to crush the bones of his pelves, and at the moment, Crowley would like nothing more. 

“ _ Faster.”  _ Crowley urges. 

Aziraphale increases his pace, breath now panting against Crowley’s shoulder. He knows that the angel does not work out, but he hopes that the exercise of their love-making is, at least, invigorating. It certainly is for him: he has not felt so alive in this corporal form in all of his  _ life.  _ His nerves are singing, his breath is burning, his skin is sweating and stinging and  _ demanding.  _ Aziraphale is now thrusting against Crowley’s bare ass relentlessly, forcing his clothed erection upwards towards his entrance.

“ _ FASTER!”  _ Crowley cries, and Aziraphale’s hips begin spasming wildly. By the sound of his breath, he seems to be losing his tight reign of control. 

“Y-you go too fast for me, Crowley!” Aziraphale frets. 

The once-damned phrase, now familiar, makes Crowley’s mouth drop open with laughter. When he recovers, he demands, “Fuck me, Angel.” In a scrabble of hands, Aziraphale pulls his trousers down and out from beneath Crowley. He feels the thick, hard weight of Aziraphale through the thin layer of his pants, and he can’t help but cry out with anticipation. “Fuck me,  _ Right. Now.”  _

_ “YES!”  _

It’s a moment of ecstasy, when the length of Aziraphale touches his entrance. Crowley does not have the angel inside of him yet, but he’s never felt so good in all his life. Aziraphale is shivering beneath him, and Crowley gives his hips a smooth rotation. (“ _ Oh!” _ ) The thick, firm head of his cock is pressing insistently against him, and Crowley can feel beads of seeping wetness. 

“Take my hand--” Crowley pants, groping for Aziraphale. As his thin, boney fingers lace with Aziraphale’s, he thinks of their first time holding hands on the bus. “--And, don’t let go.” When Crowley forces his pelvis downward, he hears Aziraphale  _ screaming.  _

“FUCK.” Crowley gasps, “Holy shit, Angel. You’re  _ HEAVY.”  _ He thinks that he might do a bit of screaming, too. For all of the time that they’d spent preparing, Crowley was  _ not  _ prepared for this  _ thicc,  _ wide-girth angel. 

“T-tickety boo?” Aziraphale gasps, moaning around the joke as it leaves him. 

Crowley hisses with annoyance even as pleasure strokes inside of him. “ _ Concentrate!”  _ He commands, and Aziraphale obeys him. With shaking hands, he grips into Crowley. 

If Aziraphale had been able to offer up a prissy argument, he may have; but, as it is, his mouth is busy offering up fervent prayers, most of them with words like “ _ Take me!” _ and  _ “Crowley!”  _ With a deep and melting sensation, Crowley remembers how Aziraphale worked, string by string, to set him free; it’s all that he wants to do, to return the favor. “Hush now,” he reassures him. “My love. I’ve got you.” 

It’s an interesting sensation, taking control while Aziraphale fucks him. Some might find that being filled, being bound and absolutely pounded a submissive experience. But not in this situation; not for Aziraphale, not for Crowley. Like all things, they are balanced: the perfect mirror-image. Once again, they have found their equilibrium, and have come to new terms of a sense of equality. If Aziraphale is the one strong enough to begin them, then Crowley is certainly the one brave enough to finish them. 

“There!” He gasps, as the  _ impossibly  _ thick shaft slides home beneath him. “ _ There,  _ r-right  _ there,  _ Angel, that’s the ticket--” 

When Aziraphale slams next into him, it is Crowley who screams. He sees stars. On this thrust, Aziraphale has found Crowley’s prostate--and no, there is _no _going back now.

As Crowley writhes back into the angel, Aziraphale pounds into him over and over. This feeling of fullness, of wholeness, assures Crowley once again that they had been created together: two halves of the same whole, two sides of the same coin. Returning together. 

“C-crowley?” Aziraphale gasps--and Crowley can tell by his voice that he’s crying. “Cr-rowley,  _ love,  _ I’m  _ close-- _ ” 

His angel is shaking. The movement of Aziraphale’s hips has become distinctly more inconsistent, more  _ desperate.  _ His hands are now not holding so much as they clawing and scribbling for purchase on Crowley’s slippery, heaving sides. Aziraphale’s breath is ragged, and Crowley can almost taste the saltwater tang of his tears, mingled with sweat, on his outstretched tongue. ( _ Angel’s going to have to do some laundry,  _ Crowley thinks). 

The moment has come. It is time for Crowley to return the favor: to invite Aziraphale into this new arrangement, and allow him to experience the magic of freedom. Freedom that is bound to the heart of another, fully trusting a soulmate to care for and protect them. 

_ “Come for me, _ ” Crowley invites Aziraphale. “My Angel. Come  _ home. _ ” 

When Aziraphale comes, it is a gasping, wet thing. He shudders, quakes from underneath Crowley, sobbing and grasping and  _ being inside him. _ Crowley feels those strong hands bite into his skin, until, surely, there would be half-crescents of blood there. As Aziraphale groans, Crowley feels fat, hot tears drop down his spine, mingling with lubrication and release. 

“ _ Behold,”  _ Aziraphale slurs, “the Great Ineffable.” 

* 

Like all magic tricks, there would be more to learn. There were sex toys for  _ centuries,  _ postures for  _ ages.  _ There was switching to be had, and experiments to be tried, and pain to the point of ecstasy to savor. But for now, an angel and a demon just lie entwined, buried beneath warm quilts and dozing lightly. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs into the demon’s forehead, “ _ Thank you.  _ You  _ do  _ make the most  _ amenable _ assistant one could ask for.” 

Stripped down to a thin, white dress-shirt and boxer-briefs, Aziraphale is the most casual (and  _ lovely)  _ Crowley has ever seen him. He wishes that they could just lie here, wrapped around each other, for the rest of forever. 

They might. 

Crowley presses his closed lips against Aziraphale’s temple. “And you, my  _ master, _ ” he replies sweetly, “are most  _ gracious! _ ” He rubs his nose against his angel’s skin. “Never have I met a more generous teacher!” 

Aziraphale’s eyes flicker open and fix upon Crowley. He feels delightfully  _ known  _ as those eyes pull over him, memorizing his form, and he can’t help his snake hips from giving a happy wiggle.“Never?” Aziraphale asks, as if he does not dare. “Not once, in all of your 6,000 years?” 

Crowley watches those perfect, pearl teeth bite into one plush lip, and he yearns to magic away every one of his fears. 

“Never.” He reassures him, “Not even _once_.” Crowley kisses a place near Aziraphale’s ear, pausing to plant one after every phrase. “Not close. Not for a moment. There’s only. ever. been. _You._” 

He sighs contentedly, and nuzzles his soft, plump face against Crowley. “With all those temptations?” Aziraphale murmurs sleepily. “My dear boy, such a thing can hardly be possible.” 

“It’s  _ very  _ possible,” Crowley replies. “Just like magic.” 

And, apparently: their teamwork of late has been good; because Aziraphale, trusting him, takes Crowley at his word. Arms wrapped around each other, they drift off into deep, satisfied sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please drop a comment or a kudos to let me know if you enjoyed it!


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